


Choose Your Own 221B Adventure

by Nikoshinigami



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Choose Your Own Adventure, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 02:55:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 6,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3340979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikoshinigami/pseuds/Nikoshinigami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You, John Watson, are coming home from work one fine day after your shift at the surgery. What happens next is up to you.</p><p>This is your typical "Choose  Your Own Adventure" type story. Quite unforgiving with many possible endings. Most of them, however, will end in death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was a positively lovely day and, to be honest, you couldn't care less. Cloudless skies with radiant sunlight blistering over sidewalks and warming the world were all well and good when one had the time and intention to be out and about in it, but sitting in your office all day at the surgery made the kindly weather a mockery or the ills and chills you forced yourself to suffer through nearly each and every day. You could have been content to live off Sherlock's pay--lord knew there was enough work shared between you to earn a living when the other man accepted pay. That was the clincher, really. Sherlock, for all his terrible flaws of personality, did not happen to also carry in him the vice of avarice. If he accepted pay for everything, you could both easily live like kings, especially seeing as a few clients now and again were in fact royalty and able to pay quite the sum. But Sherlock didn't care about making a living, he cared about solving other people's problems, about 'the work'. He cared about why his whims weren't being met every second and why he had to muddle through a normal day now and again. Oh, the problems of being rich and privileged. You wouldn't mind having a few of those yourself. How sad and inconvenient to have a job simply to stave off the boredom of living a gentleman's life. You must have missed that particular sign up when they were handing out fate. You'd have made a fine professional benefactor of the arts and sciences and... things.

The day is still nice when you alight your cab in front of 221B Baker Street but it still doesn't matter a toss. You get to enjoy it for all of five seconds as you cross the pavement to the front door and turn the knob without need of a key. The worst part of it is that you know, you _know_ with hardly any doubt, that when the weekend comes you'll end up with rain and a million excuses to stay indoors again. It's only sunny and beautiful when your days are spent at a desk with a limited view through a window. Sure, you could take lunch in a park or a walk through a garden during some small reprieve in the day but that would last all of half an hour at best whereas complaining about it could fill an entire evening. This was ammunition for later when Sherlock felt it best to moan about his laying on the couch all day. Much as you'd rather not admit it, you know damn well you couldn't care less about the beauty of the day. All you really care about is being able to stick it to Sherlock should his moods in that particular direction sway. Begrudging a pompous arse who wastes a perfectly beautiful day sounds so much more grown up than admitting envy for not being able to truly do the same.

You take the steps up to the flat, listening carefully for some clue as to where your flatmate is currently residing. The couch? The kitchen? The bathroom? His own room? He knows what time you get home on most days and so is generally not difficult to find, setting himself up in a place he'll easily be discovered so as to garner all the attention he's been lacking through your absence all day. It's strangely nice in its predictability. Nothing else in life is quite as straight forward. Stomping up that final stair to the first floor landing, you find yourself almost excited to hear what your flatmate has done and bubble with anticipation for any arguments waiting to unfold.

Where do you look first?  
The kitchen? Turn to Chapter Eleven  
The den? Turn to Chapter Twenty  
Your own room? Turn to Chapter Seven


	2. Chapter 2

Something is decidedly wrong, though you're sure you'd feel better about things if you had your gun. That way, at least, when Sherlock became ready for you, you'd be ready to jump up at a moment's notice and join him in your newest foray.

As you take the second flight of stairs, however, you have a decent view of the floor above where sunlight lays spilling in through windows out from under your bedroom door. This view should be uninterrupted with nothing there to get in the sunlight's way. It isn't, though. For a second there is glowing rectangle of illumination followed by a pressing darkness that leaves two pillars of black amidst the sunny spray. Legs. Someone is standing just on the other side of your bedroom door. You'd like very much to say it's simple paranoia fueling your blood with adrenalin but that nagging sensation at the back of your mind isn't so easily appeased in this situation. 

Do you charge into your room and confront whoever's there? Turn to Chapter Eighteen.  
Do you hurry back down the stairs for help? Turn to Chapter Three.


	3. Chapter 3

As you turn to retreat, you hear footsteps behind you. Even then, though, it is too late to act. He has the gun in his hand but it's already smoking by the time you register the pain of the gunshot in your back. Your feet can do nothing to counter the force of the bullet, your body tumbling down the stairs in a painfully jolting descent. You lose consciousness before your mind can finish processing the fact that you don't know the man who came out of your room, you've never seen him before in your life. 

The moment spared to wonder where Sherlock is comes seconds too late to really register as a cognizant idea rather than the bursting of miscellaneous thoughts and memories that come with the last firing of your neural pathways. You are dead before you've even stopped rolling down the stairs.

The End


	4. Chapter 4

You utilize the sock and the tie from Sherlock's dressing gown to secure pressure over the wound as you jump up to grab your mobile. Sherlock needs help--he needs help _now_. 

You stumble out of the main door, unlocking and wrenching it open--the paramedics would need to get through it anyway--as you race towards the den where your mobile is resting.

If you've been upstairs, turn to Chapter Six  
If not, turn to Chapter Thirteen


	5. Chapter 5

"I'm not going to hurt you," you tell the strange man. "He's not dead; you're not a murderer yet. If you drop that gun and leave this flat, you might even get away."

The wild man looks at you, his eyes darting towards the stairwell that will take him outside. He looks like a trapped animal and you keep as much distance between you as you would an untamed beast. You need to get past him without startling him if you're going to get help for Sherlock, though. You can't both be shot and have an armed suspect on the loose with only Scotland Yard to find him.

Something you said seems to convince the stranger than his luck is bettered served on the run and at your mercy than involved in a homicide. The gun hits the floor and he's down the stairs at breakneck speed. That's fine, though. He's gone now and you make your way quickly to the den.

Turn to Chapter Six


	6. Chapter 6

You grab the phone off the side table and quickly dial for help. The woman on the other end of the line wants you to stay on the phone while help is on the way but you can't be bothered past bringing it in Sherlock's room with you as you hurry back. You're on your knees by his side in seconds, putting your hands back to work as you both wait for the song of sirens.

With eyes unfocused, Sherlock tries to tell you something, his mouth working around empty syllables as his throat rattles out breathy groans.

"Shhh," you tell him, kissing at his forehead. "It's okay. Everything's going to be fine."

He shakes his head, lips trying to move one last time, before the last gasp of life scrapes its way through his chest and leaves him empty on his final exhale.

You stare at his wide, vacant eyes in horror, your hand trembling over the wound in his chest. This isn't real. This can't be real. Your very concept of reality is denying everything your senses believe.

And even as you place white lilies at the base of his headstone, you still cannot bring yourself to accept what happened on that beautiful day.

The End


	7. Chapter 7

Despite the desire to jump straight into things with Sherlock, you decide to head up to your room instead and change out of your work attire. You know you've sweat through the pits of the white tee under your plaid button-down and, it being impossible to actually predict the way an evening might go with Sherlock Holmes as a flatmate, you decide it's best to be fresh and prepared for anything. You're supposed to be the least offensive of the pair, after all. Body odor should certainly factor in somewhere in all that.

As you take the second flight of stairs, however, you have a decent view of the floor above where sunlight lays spilling in through windows out from under your bedroom door. This view should be uninterrupted with nothing there to get in the sunlight's way. It isn't, though. For a second there is glowing rectangle of illumination followed by a pressing darkness that leaves two pillars of black amidst the sunny spray. Legs. Someone is standing just on the other side of your bedroom door and he has all the nerve of a thief. You'd like to say this is surprising but it's not. Sherlock has as much respect for your belongings as he does for his own, seemingly incapable of telling the difference between personal property and shared. You really should teach him a lesson, and catching him in the act is definitely going to improve your stance in the coming disagreement.

Do you open the door and surprise him? Turn to Chapter Sixteen.  
Do you wait in the hallway and see what he does? Turn to Chapter Twenty-Four


	8. Chapter 8

You aren't going to survive this wound, you know. And selfishly, you don't feel much inclined to die a hero. What does the world hold for Sherlock if it's lacking in his John? You're not blind, after all. Neither of you are stupid. So you use the wall to get yourself back into Sherlock's room, and find a nice place in the pool of blood to lay yourself down to forever--in the span of this lifetime--be by his side.

He's already dead, though. You can tell. You'd cry but there doesn't seem to be much use in it when everything else is coming undone. There isn't enough time to properly mourn him and, god willing, you'll be together soon.

Lacing your fingers with his, you hold tight to his hand, not wanting to be kept back from this shared journey. With one last breath, you close your eyes.

The End


	9. Chapter 9

You walk back to Sherlock's room and give the door a knock. There is no answer. You give the handle a cursory turn to find the door curiously locked. What's he hiding in there, you wonder as you walk back out to the den.

Do you text Sherlock? Turn to Chapter Twenty-Five.  
Do you go upstairs to your own room? Turn to Chapter Two.


	10. Chapter 10

You make your way back down the stairs as quickly as possible, fear driving you quickly towards Sherlock's room. The door is locked and you bang on it hard. From inside comes no response.

You open the bathroom door instead, deciding to get in through the alternate entry. The glass door is locked as well, though through the fog of the semi-transparent sheet you can see a dark shape laying flat against the floor and a pool of red beneath it.

"No," you say, or simply think before kicking through the decorative glass and reaching through to fiddle with the lock on the other side. You can smell blood now and it does nothing but fuel your anger as you tumble inside the room over broken shards of glass, not caring at all for personal well-being with your eyes fully entranced by Sherlock's prone form.

Turn to Chapter Fifteen.


	11. Chapter 11

You walk first through the kitchen, hoping to find the kettle hot or at the very least still warm to enjoy an evening cup of tea. It's not at all unlikely given Sherlock's homebody disposition but alas the you find the kettle cool though still more than half-full of water. You don't bother to turn it out and pour in a fresh lot. You simply turn the power on and sigh about your luck as you continue to look around the kitchen.

Sherlock had been doing experiments again by the looks of things and all you can do is hope that the splatter of red against the wall is paint and not blood though you don't hold out much hope on the matter. One or both of you was going to come down with some terrible disease from a blood-born pathogen spread from one of Sherlock's many disgusting experimentations some day--you were sure of it. With conditions in the surgery regulation pristine, it made coming home to obviously contaminated surfaces all the more revolting. The metallic smell in the room doesn't make you any more apt to forgive Sherlock for the mess either. You don't really mind the experiments so long as they don't encroach on the living areas, which they all too often did as far as you were concerned. And right now, the kitchen is positively unusable. 

Shaking your head, you leave the kettle to heat as you wander across into the den.

Turn to Chapter Twenty


	12. Chapter 12

You walk back to Sherlock's room and give the door a knock. There is no answer. You give the handle a cursory turn to find the door curiously locked. That's not going to stop you, though.

You open the bathroom door instead, deciding to get in through the alternate entry. The glass door is locked as well, though through the fog of the semi-transparent sheet you can see a dark shape laying flat against the floor and a pool of red beneath it.

"No," you say, or simply think before kicking through the decorative glass and reaching through to fiddle with the lock on the other side. You can smell blood now and it does nothing but fuel your anger as you tumble inside the room over broken shards of glass, not caring at all for personal well-being with your eyes fully entranced by Sherlock's prone form.

Turn to Chapter Fifteen


	13. Chapter 13

You stop in your tracks as you see a strange man standing near the stairs that lead up towards your room, a gun in his hand and his attention focused squarely on you. 

You don't know the man standing there. He's unclean looking, there are scars on his face and hands from sores or perhaps even really bad acne from years past. The beard makes him hard to assign an age but the lines of his wild eyes don't belong to anyone remarkably younger than you yourself. You do not know this man and you can't fathom a way in which he knows you. But there he is, in your flat, holding a gun and undoubtedly the man who shot Sherlock Holmes.

Do you reason with the stranger? Turn to Chapter Five  
Do you attack the stranger? Turn to Chapter Twenty-Two


	14. Chapter 14

You make your way back down the stairs as quickly as possible and run immediately into the den for your mobile. Somehow that man got into your flat. Somehow he got past Sherlock. Part of you wants to hope the man must have gotten lucky to find the flat both unlocked and unoccupied. Your gut tells you otherwise though as you finally turn enough to set your sights on Sherlock's bedroom door as you dial 999.

"--at is your emergency?" the woman's voice asks on the line.

"221B Baker Street," you rattle off. "Intruder in the flat." There are no notes on the kitchen table or any sign left to say that Sherlock meant for that man to be there. The back hall is claustrophobic in this setting but you walk down and, looking over your shoulder, try Sherlock's bedroom door. Locked.

"Are you safe? Can you get out of the flat?"

You open the bathroom door instead, deciding to get in through the alternate entry. The glass door is locked as well, though through the fog of the semi-transparent sheet you can see a dark shape laying flat against the floor and a pool of red beneath it.

"No," you say, or answer, or simply think before dropping the phone to the floor. Both hands are needed now as you kick through the decorative glass and reach through to fiddle with the lock on the other side. You can smell blood now and it does nothing but fuel your anger as you tumble inside the room over broken shards of glass, not caring at all for personal well-being with your eyes fully entranced by Sherlock's prone form.

Turn to Chapter Fifteen


	15. Chapter 15

You kneel beside Sherlock's body and turn him over, finding him pale and unconscious and everything you don't want him to be while blood oozes from a hole in his chest that his own hands have been trying to stay. There was a roll of socks pressed between dressing gown and chest, assuring pressure would remain even after consciousness faded by virtue of body weight and selective pressure. Smart man--genius man. You find a pulse and let out a shaky breath, forcing the heel of your palm against the sluggish wound while trying to remain calm even as your heart pounds madly against your ribs. He's not going to die. You're not going to _let_ him die. And at the moment, that's all that matters.

If you have already called the police, turn to Chapter Twenty-Seven.  
If you get up to get your mobile, turn to Chapter Four.  
If you stay by Sherlock's side, turn to Chapter Twenty-Three


	16. Chapter 16

You make quick work of the final steps, rushing to catch Sherlock in the act--whatever act it may be: confiscating your laptop, looting through your personal affects, stealing your underwear. You have no idea why he'd be doing the latter but sometimes you can't help but wonder what sort of perversions he might be hiding under all that... Sherlock. Sometimes, maybe, you sort of hope that you'll catch him unguarded and hear him saying your name in a wistful way or staring at your things with a wanting that's not of them but of their owner. It'd be interesting. It'd be good. Not that you could fathom any way in which you'd ever let him know that. 

As you burst through your bedroom door, though, there came not the normal bang of the swinging wood or of heavy footsteps but of gun now clearly smoking in your sights. You don't feel the pain, though. That would require your attention to be on yourself and in the moment it's quite obviously somewhere else. You don't know the man standing in your room, holding your gun. He's unclean looking, there are scars on his face and hands from sores or perhaps even really bad acne from years past. The beard makes him hard to assign an age but the lines of his wild eyes don't belong to anyone remarkably younger than you yourself. You do not know this man and you can't fathom a way in which he knows you. But your room is in shambles and he's obviously found your gun. That's enough to be going on for now. Besides that, and more importantly, you're shot.

It's your 'bad' leg that gives out on you first as you slowly slide down the wall to the floor, your hand pressing in on your own gut where blood has soaked through every layer you have worn. It's a kill shot; you know it immediately. If not for the blood loss, you'd certainly go septic anyway. You'll lose consciousness soon and there won't be anyone to apply pressure on the wound. If you're lucky, Sherlock heard that and is calling for an ambulance now. If you're very lucky, one just so happens to be in the neighborhood and is pulling up to the curb with police this very instant.

But you're not lucky. You're cold and alone. The stranger runs past you in a scurry, smelling of urine and pennies, and you wonder for only a moment how the man came to be there or where Sherlock is if not at home. Sherlock is the last thought and memory that you hold in your mind as everything fades to black and you die.

The End


	17. Chapter 17

It takes a great deal of effort but you manage to get into the den and over to the side table where you last left your phone. Your limbs are shaking, your body feels cold, your vision is blurred and black along the edges. Your fingers are slick with blood as you try to dial 999 and the phone topples out of your grip and onto the floor. You pick it back up with shaking hands only to find that the screen has cracked and the touch panel no longer works. Expensive paperweight.

You throw the phone away in rage, sadly only getting to watch it skitter across the floor after an impotent toss. You're on your elbows in a second, cheek against the rug in a second more. You can only hope Mrs. Hudson is home or that someone else has had the presence of mind to call for help. The call won't be coming from you, you realize, and in a second more you die.

The End


	18. Chapter 18

You make quick work of the final steps, rushing to catch whoever is your room in the act--whatever act it may be: steeling your laptop, looting through your personal affects, pilfering your underwear. You have no idea why anyone would be doing the latter but sometimes you can't help but wonder what sort of perversions Sherlock might be hiding under all that... Sherlock. Sometimes, maybe, you sort of hope that you'll catch him unguarded and hear him saying your name in a wistful way or staring at your things with a wanting that's not of them but of their owner. It'd be interesting. It'd be good. Not that you could fathom any way in which you'd ever let him know that. 

As you burst through your bedroom door, though, it's not Sherlock you run into. You don't know the man standing in your room, holding your gun and pointing it at you. He's unclean looking, there are scars on his face and hands from sores or perhaps even really bad acne from years past. The beard makes him hard to assign an age but the lines of his wild eyes don't belong to anyone remarkably younger than you yourself. You do not know this man and you can't fathom a way in which he knows you. But your room is in shambles and he's obviously found your gun. That's enough to be going on for now. 

Do you wrestle the gun away from the man? Turn to Chapter Twenty-One  
Do you run away? Turn to Chapter Three.


	19. Chapter 19

You make your way back down the stairs as quickly and as quietly as possible, fishing in your pocket for your phone as you go. You dial 999 without having to look, not wanting to turn your back on the stairs or the door containing the stranger behind. Somehow that man got into your flat. Somehow he got past Sherlock. Part of you wants to think the man must have gotten lucky to find the flat both unlocked and unoccupied. Your gut tells you otherwise though as you finally turn enough to set your sights on Sherlock's bedroom door.

"--at is your emergency?" the woman's voice asks on the line.

You whisper as you duck through the kitchen from the landing. "221B Baker Street. Intruder in the flat." There are no notes on the kitchen table or any sign left to say that Sherlock meant for that man to be there. The back hall is claustrophobic in this setting but you walk down and, looking over your shoulder, try Sherlock's bedroom door. Locked.

"Are you safe? Can you get out of the flat?"

You open the bathroom door instead, deciding to get in through the alternate entry. The glass door is locked as well, though through the fog of the semi-transparent sheet you can see a dark shape laying flat against the floor and a pool of red beneath it.

"No," you say, or answer, or simply think before dropping the phone to the floor. Both hands are needed now as you kick through the decorative glass and reach through to fiddle with the lock on the other side. You can smell blood now and it does nothing but fuel your anger as you tumble inside the room over broken shards of glass, not caring at all for personal well-being with your eyes fully entranced by Sherlock's prone form.

Turn to Chapter Fifteen


	20. Chapter 20

The den was just as you'd left it that morning with only a few things disturbed. The most notable difference was that Sherlock wasn't still there on the sofa, grumbling, acting out and irritable to the extreme. Perhaps he isn't at home then, you think as you settle into your chair, removing from your pockets your wallet and mobile phone and placing them on the side table.

It's odd that your phone doesn't show any waiting messages, though. Normally if Sherlock leaves the flat, especially for a case, he remembers to text. He always texts. Unless, for some reason, he can't. 

You don't allow your mind to linger on such thoughts. Sherlock's fine, you tell yourself. Probably off on some errand to try and stave off boredom. Of course he'd text if he had a case so obviously, in this instance, he doesn't. Just because you were looking forward to coming home and bickering for sport doesn't mean he was. 

Still, something seems off about Sherlock's absence that is nagging at your mind.

Do you get up and check Sherlock's bedroom? Turn to Chapter Nine.  
Do you text Sherlock? Turn to Chapter Twenty-Five.  
Do you go upstairs to your room? Turn to Chapter Two.


	21. Chapter 21

You don't have time to think so you don't bother to. As the stranger fires the gun, you've already pivoted your weight to the other foot, sliding in to strike down at his elbow and disarm him in one heavy hit. The shot goes wild and misses and the gun easily clatters to the floor. Now it's simply a matter of one unarmed man verses another--except for the fact that you are _extremely_ pissed off right now. You don't know where Sherlock is, you're a little concerned that the gunshot hasn't caused any alarm from the residents of 221B, and all of that makes for one pissed of ex-soldier who's nostrils are currently filled with the odor of piss and pennies. You go straight for the throat, the bones in your hand jolting with the force of the strike you send to his trachea. He's on his knees in a matter of minutes while each strike you land is kept precise and controlled despite your temper. You want him to be able to tell you what's happened when this is all over and Lestrade is taking him away in handcuffs. For now, knocking him unconscious is enough to neutralize the threat. You wait until he's out cold on the floor before tying his hands behind his back with his own shoelaces and standing up, panting hard from the exertion of the fight.

Do you grab the gun next? Turn to Chapter Twenty-Six  
Do you go back to the den and call the police? Turn to Chapter Fourteen  
Do you have your mobile on you still? Turn to Chapter Nineteen

[Note: If you have been to the den, you no longer have your mobile on your person]


	22. Chapter 22

In a blind rage you dash towards the stranger, hoping to catch him off guard and knock him down to begin your tussle for the gun. You don't get that far, though. You hear the gun go off and think nothing of it until your legs give out from under you and the wall is the only reason you still stand. You're lucky in a way that the stranger has better things to do than make sure you're dead as he rushes down the stairs and out the door without so much as another shot fired. 

It only takes one, though.

You put your hand over your gut, knowing immediately how bad this is and how little time you have left.

Do you continue to go for your mobile? Turn to Chapter Seventeen  
Do you give up and go back to Sherlock? Turn to Chapter Eight


	23. Chapter 23

"Help!" you shout at the top of your lungs, praying Mrs. Hudson is home. Or a neighbor. Or someone on the street. Really anyone will do at this time. You don't even care about the man in your flat anymore if by some miracle he decides to help. Sherlock's hurt--that's all that matters. Sherlock has been shot and is bleeding and you are going to save his life.

You push down harder with the heel of your palm over the wound and you see Sherlock's eyes flutter at the discomfort of the press. That's good, you tell yourself, and smile shakily through the madness in your brain.

"You're okay," you tell him. You should get help but, god, you can't leave his side like this.

Despite his pain, you see his lips tug briefly with blood caught in the corners of his smile. "Old acquaintance," he whispers. "Needed a fix. More desperate than I thought."

You hush him and stroke his hair back, smearing blood in the path of your hand. "It can wait," you tell him. He shakes his head no. But he's not going to die; you won't let him. So it can wait, you remind him. It can all wait.

Sherlock puts his hand over yours at his chest, too weak to help but the gesture not meant to try. It's amazing how his hand engulfs your own. Such delicate fingers on such a dextrous instrument. His touch is cool but his blood is warm. He holds your hand wearing a smile.

"We're such fools," he mutters, and you can't help but agree. But he isn't talking to you. He isn't talking to anyone. The words are meant for him alone and you know, the way you've always known, the meaning they convey.

Hands busy, you lean in to kiss his forehead, not bothered in the slightest by the taste of blood. "I know," you tell him, and your words too carry more than they say.

He smiles again and then gently goes quiet as you both pray for the sounds of sirens to be heard ringing out in the pleasant day's air.

The End


	24. Chapter 24

You stay perfectly still at the top of the stairs, doing your best not to make a sound. Your eyes stay glued to the two black shadows on the floor and wait with even your breaths made quiet for the man on the other side of the door to make his move. You can't help but wonder what it is what Sherlock was doing in there. Confiscating your laptop? Looting through your personal affects? Stealing your underwear? You have no idea why he'd be doing the latter but sometimes you can't help but wonder what sort of perversions he might be hiding under all that... Sherlock. Sometimes, maybe, you sort of hope that you'll catch him unguarded and hear him saying your name in a wistful way or staring at your things with a wanting that's not of them but of their owner. It'd be interesting. It'd be good. Not that you could fathom any way in which you'd ever let him know that.

"No, I know; no, I know," a voice repeats low on the other side of the door. And your heart stops for a moment because you don't know that voice. That's not Sherlock standing in the way of the sunlight in your room. There is someone in your flat, muttering to himself, going through your things and somehow no one has stopped him. Something is very wrong about this picture and you have very little time to decided what you must do.

Do you hurry down the stairs to call for help? Turn to Chapter Nineteen.  
Do you rush the man in your room? Turn to Chapter Twenty-One.


	25. Chapter 25

You bash out a simple text into your mobile and send it off to Sherlock, putting your phone back down on the table without much anticipation for a speedy reply. If Sherlock was too busy to text you himself, after all, the likelihood of him quickly texting back was low. He most certainly couldn't text you at all, however, with his phone flashing a silent alert from the table desk. 

You stand up from your chair and walk over to the blinking phone, the device letting everyone know that a new message had just been received. Yours.

Putting the phone back down, you grimace slightly at what leaving behind his phone might mean--though the option remained that he was simply in his room.

Do you go to Sherlock's room? Turn to Chapter Twelve  
Do you go upstairs to your room? Turn to Chapter Two


	26. Chapter 26

You lean down and pick the gun off the floor, absently checking the cartridge for bullets. You expect to see only one bullet missing but there's two gaps riding the end of the line. It was a fresh clip when last you serviced your weapon, and you know of only one shot you've heard.

Sherlock's absence in all this replaces all other emotions with panic as you hurry in a run down the stairs.

Do you go for your phone? Turn to Chapter Fourteen  
Do you run to Sherlock's room? Turn to Chapter Ten  
Do you have your mobile on you still? Turn to Chapter Nineteen

[Note: If you have been to the den, you no longer have your mobile on your person]


	27. Chapter 27

The police are on their way, you tell yourself. The dispatcher surely heard the breaking glass and an ambulance will be sent as well. You don't even care about the man in your flat anymore. Sherlock's hurt--that's all that matters. Sherlock has been shot and is bleeding and you are going to save his life.

You push down harder with the heel of your palm over the wound and you see Sherlock's eyes flutter at the discomfort of the press. That's good, you tell yourself, and smile shakily through the madness in your brain.

"You're okay," you tell him. "Someone's on their way. I've got you."

Despite his pain, you see his lips tug briefly with blood caught in the corners of his smile. "Old acquaintance," he whispers. "Needed a fix. More desperate than I thought."

You hush him and stroke his hair back, smearing blood in the path of your hand. "It can wait," you tell him. He shakes his head no. But he's not going to die; you won't let him. So it can wait, you remind him. It can all wait.

Sherlock puts his hand over yours at his chest, too weak to help but the gesture not meant to try. It's amazing how his hand engulfs your own. Such delicate fingers on such a dextrous instrument. His touch is cool but his blood is warm. He holds your hand wearing a smile.

"I'm such a fool," he mutters, and you can't help but agree. But he isn't talking to you. He isn't talking to anyone. The words are meant for him alone and you know, the way you've always known, the meaning they convey.

Hands busy, you lean in to kiss his forehead, not bothered in the slightest by the taste of blood. "You're only a fool if you think this is the end."

He smiles again and is quiet for once as the sounds of sirens ring out in the pleasant day's air.

 

You bring roses to rest on his recovery room's table and sleep in a bundle beside his bed in a chair.

The End


End file.
